Master of the Cauldron (24 page)

Garric slammed the pike into the wainscotting again. This time the rusty head scrunched through not only the paneling but also the structure inside. He twisted, splitting the panel. Behind was a low doorway, blocked with wattle and daub on a frame of poles.

Garric set down the half pike and wrenched the panel free with his hands. He was as quiet as possible, knowing that if the guards in the hallway outside heard wood tearing, they'd be through the door even if they had to smash it down.

Since Garric became Prince Garric, he spent too much of his life being protected from the unusual. This was something he'd handle himself until he found some greater threat than a doorway plugged in the distant past. The withies were cracklingly brittle.

The wattle had shrunk as it dried, and the remains of the clay that'd filled it shook away as Garric wrestled out the plug. There was a draft, faint but cool. He stepped back, dusting his palms against one another, and Liane thrust the lamp into the opening.

“There's steps going down,” she said. “Farther than the light shows.”

Garric squatted beside her to look. He grinned, laid his hand on the half pike, and said, “It looks a little tight for this, don't you think? I think my sword's the better choice.”

He rose and drew his sword again. Liane balanced the half pike in her left hand and said, “I'll carry the spontoon in case there's something blocking the passage. Though the shaft's split so badly that it probably wouldn't work as a lever on any serious obstacle.”

She slipped through the opening, using the pikeshaft to support her as she dropped nearly her full height to where the steps started. A foundation wall for the present palace rested on what would've been the upper portion of an ancient staircase.

“Hey!” said Garric in surprise. “I'll lead, and I'll take the lamp too.”

“No,” said Liane. “This leaves you free to deal with anything waiting around a landing or a corner.”

Garric made a sour face but followed as Liane started down the steps. The staircase was wide enough for two, but only barely. If he were attacked unexpectedly, the lamp would be a serious hindrance; though he didn't like to think of killing an enemy whose weapon was stuck in Liane either.

In his mind Carus, who'd watched silently to that moment, murmured,
“Sometimes there's no really good way to do it. It's just that simple.”

“This building's built over one that was destroyed a thousand years ago,” Garric said. “We must be in part of the cellars of the earlier palace that didn't completely collapse. I don't see how there can be light here that you saw, though.”

“Neither do I,” said Liane quietly. Her voice whispered an accompaniment to itself between the narrow walls of the passage. “Unless fungus glows on the walls, but it doesn't seem…”

The steps ended on a concrete floor that hadn't been finished or even properly leveled. They'd reached the subcellars of the original palace.

Storage jars had been placed upright along the section of wall opposite, their narrow bases sunk in a stone-curbed sandbox. All but one had broken in the violence that brought down all the building to their right. Liane raised the lamp, but it could only hint at the thoroughness of the destruction.

Garric heard water dripping; it seemed to come from below where he stood. He frowned, turning slowly and letting his other senses tell him what his eyes couldn't in this gloom. The hairs fringing the shell of his ears felt an air current too faint to be called a breeze.

He walked slowly toward the corner to the right. It was a shadowed mass of rubble by the flickering lamplight. His shadow shifted around him as Liane stepped to his side with the lamp high. At the end of the vast room the debris sloped not only inward but to the side as well: the shock had dropped part of a foundation wall into a natural cave.

“How far do you suppose…,” Garric said, then swallowed the rest of the question. It was one of those silly things you said—or caught yourself before you said, if you kept control of your tongue—when you wanted to make noise because you were afraid.

Liane had no better way than he did of telling how deep the cave might be. The faint air current suggested it went on some distance, but a crack too tight for a mouse would still let air through.

“Well, we can go a little…,” Liane said. She stepped onto a broken chunk of concrete, planting the butt of the pikestaff farther down the slope like a walking stick. The block shifted under her weight and slid, gathering lesser debris and sending a cloud of dust up the scree. Liane twisted after it.

Garric grabbed her shoulder with his left hand. The lamp flew from her grasp and shattered. Its wick faded into a blue spark far down the slope of rubble, then went out.

Garric hugged her to him. “Love,” he said. “Love. Is your ankle all right? I can carry you if you've turned it.”

“I'm fine,” Liane said, but she held him tightly for a long moment. “I'm a fool not to have brought rushlights instead of the lamp! They'd still burn if I dropped one.”

“I think we've seen enough for one night,” Garric said, pleased in his heart that he had an excuse for not going farther with what was either a pointless exercise or a very dangerous one. “Here, give me the pike and I'll feel our way back to the stairs.”

In the morning—later in the morning, he supposed—he might send a squad of soldiers here to explore with pine torches or rushlights as Liane suggested, dried fennel stalks whose spongy pith had been soaked with tallow. This jaunt had been enough to satisfy his desire to do something real instead of talking interminably and ‘looking regal,' whatever that meant.

“I'll guide us,” Liane said. “You keep your sword out. Anyway, it shouldn't be difficult. The floor was clear enough.”

She walked briskly with Garric's left hand on her shoulder, tapping the staff but obviously following her instincts rather than needing the help. She had as good a sense of direction within buildings as Garric did in the woods. At the stairs she continued to lead, but without Garric to boost her she'd have had a difficult time getting through an opening at the height of her head.

As Liane scrambled back into their room, Garric turned and listened. Somewhere in the distance water dripped, or perhaps he was imagining that it did.

There
was
a glow, though, from the subcellar or perhaps from beyond it. It was fainter than starlight, but he could make out the flat arch over the bottom of the stairs.

“Here,” said Liane. She set the pike crosswise in the opening, braced against the wall on either side. Garric gripped the shaft with his free hand and tugged to make sure it would hold. Then he shot his sword back into its scabbard and pulled himself up by the strength of both arms and the soles of his feet on the wall.

The moon had risen since they'd started down the opening; Garric's eyes, adapted to pitch darkness, gave him a good view of the unfamiliar room. He lifted the clothespress that held his regalia and straddle-walked to the opening, where he set it down as quietly as he could.

“There,” he said, stepping back to view his handiwork. “Now I think we can get some sleep.”

“Will it hold?” Liane said doubtfully.

Garric laughed. “Not against a serious threat,” he said, “but it'll make a good deal of noise if somebody slides it back. And if that happens—”

He drew his sword with a
sring!
and an arc of shimmering moonlight.

“—I'll have something to say about it even before the guards get here.”

Still chuckling, he led Liane to the bed. Suddenly, getting more sleep wasn't the first thing on his mind.

 

Cashel'd always had a good head for heights, so the view at night from Ronn's north parapet thrilled rather than frightened him. He bent over the edge, feeling the force of the wind that rushed up the wall's slope. It brought with it dry odors and hinted mystery.

A patchwork of lights gleamed at every level of the city, the suites of residents still awake. The outside stairs were pastel zigzags against the general darkness.

He turned; Mab was watching him with an amused expression. The night was moonless, but drifting glows like those he'd seen on the terraces over the diamond lake were enough to keep the scattered strollers there on the topmost plaza from walking into one another.

Mab was shorter than she'd been when they left the terrace. Though he couldn't be sure in this light, he thought her hair'd changed color too.

She pointed to the nearest of the lights; it floated obediently closer. “They'll brighten enough for you to read by,” she said.

Cashel smiled. “Well, not me, ma'am,” he said. “But if I could read, I'm sure they would.”

For the first time since he'd met her, Mab lost her self-composure. “I didn't…,” she said with a look of shocked surprise. Instead of finishing whatever she'd started to say, she went on, “You've had a hard life, haven't you, Cashel?”

He thought about the question instead of just blurting an answer, but it came out the same way anyhow. “No, ma'am,” he said. “I don't guess I have. Not for me, I mean.”

Mab quirked a smile at him. “No?” she said. “Well, perhaps you haven't, then. I believe your mother would've wished things had been otherwise for you; though a more learned upbringing might've left you less able to aid Ronn in her present plight.”

Cashel laughed. “Oh, mistress!” he said. “You wouldn't say that if you'd met my friend Garric! He can read and write like any city-bred scholar, but he can knock any man in the borough silly with a quarterstaff. Besides me, of course.”

Cashel had room here, so purely for the joy of it he stepped clear of the woman and started a series of exercises with his staff. He made slow circles at first, in front of him and overhead; then he crossed his grip to reverse direction, spinning the heavy hickory faster.

Only when Cashel was sure he had the rhythm and he'd warmed the kinks out of his muscles, did he start doing fancy tricks. He fed the staff around his body sunwise, then widdershins, and when he had it around in front of him again he spun it between his legs and caught it over his head. That was one where you could do yourself a world of hurt if your timing was just the least hair off.

There were more people coming over to watch him now. Mab had brought a yellow light to hover overhead, brighter than the others drifting over the plaza. If Cashel hadn't already gotten into the feel of the thing, the spectators would've embarrassed him, but as it was he was glad for their eyes. He was good at this, better than any man in the borough and any man he'd met since leaving the borough. He wasn't going to pretend that wasn't so.

Cashel capped the show with the things that were more than just tricks—the moves you made in a bout or a fight for real, if you were good enough. He spun the staff overhead. When the smooth hickory was a blur of soft light, he jumped beneath it and let it pull
him
so that he was facing the other way, then jumped again and returned to the way he'd been standing before.

Cashel's weight slowed the staff so he could slam it to a dead stop upright beside him. He was sweating and gasping in deep breaths, but he was as happy as he'd been since he walked into the hillside with Mab.

The spectators raised their hands over their heads and clapped them together. There were really a lot of them, more than he'd realized while he was exercising.

Mab stepped to Cashel's side, touched his right hand, and with gentle pressure turned him so that everybody could see his face. It was a little embarrassing, but mostly he was proud.

Mab pointed to the bright fairy light directly overhead. It went out, returning the two of them to darkness and privacy. The spectators drifted away.

“Now,” she said, “we'll watch what I brought you here to see. It's time.”

As she spoke, a male Councillor stepped through an arched doorway that came from the interior of the city. He murmured a word, beating time in the air with an athame of zebra-striped wood. Beside him appeared the lighted figure—no, it was a figure of light!—of a warrior in steel armor.

Blond hair spilled from under the figure's helmet and fell across its polished shoulderpieces. It was oversized, half again as tall as Cashel and taller than any living man he'd seen, but it wasn't a fanciful giant like the trumpeter who'd greeted the dawn.

“That was Valeri,” Mab said. “The queen formed his image after he went down to the cavern to sleep. The Councillors cause the image to walk the parapet every night; it and the other Heroes.”

Cashel watched the figure go by, moving at the speed of the wizardling who walked beside it. The image's legs scissored, and its head turned like that of a real man looking toward the mountains as he sauntered along. The body looked solid, but it was too clear to be real. It looked like it would in daylight, but there wasn't any light there except for the floating glows. When the figure passed through a planter of roses, it did just that—passed through them.

“There's nothing on this plaza that's higher than the parapet,” Mab said as she and Cashel followed the warrior's image into the distance. “Someone watching from the mountains, even if he were able to bring objects closer with wizardry or mechanick arts, would see only what appeared to be Valeri walking the battlements.”

Another Councillor came through the arch. This time it was the woman who'd spoken when age prevented her chief from addressing the Assembly.

“They're honoring the people who saved the city?” Cashel said. “I've seen statues in Valles and other places too, but those're mostly bronze. The ones I've seen.”

Instead of an athame this Councillor held a flight feather from the wing of some great bird. She beat time with it, and at every stroke it changed color: from purple to orange, and back again with the next stroke. Each step she cried,
“Misauda!”